


Strange Moon

by 50_points_for_ravenclaw



Series: BINGO [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Spark Stiles Stilinski, lots and lots of sass, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:43:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50_points_for_ravenclaw/pseuds/50_points_for_ravenclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is an agent with the Federal Department of Supernatural Inquiry (or F.D.S.I. for short). Derek owns a coffee shop in Beacon Hills. He's also the alpha of a pack with unregistered betas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_DK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_DK/gifts).



> I was hoping to do a bit more with this but my mind did not want to work with me on it. But I hope it's somewhat what you were looking for and that you enjoy it! (:

The shop is small, nondescript and hidden amongst one of the busiest streets in Beacon Hills. Stiles still remembers the old ice cream parlor that used to stand in its place back when he was growing up. But now, instead of the cheery wooden sign in the shape of a strawberry cone, there’s a plain rectangular one with a picture of a cappuccino outlined by a full moon. Gone are the tall 50s-esque window decals announcing the ‘new’ buy one get one half off deal on one scoop cones (the sign was there since before Stiles was born) and the ugly but fitting pink curtains, swept to the sides with gold rope. In their place are much more subdued decorations—soft browns and maroons paired with wood paneling.

Stiles can see the appeal. The name _Strange Moon Coffee Bar_ is a little obvious for his tastes, though.

Stepping inside is warm and inviting and everything a coffee shop should be (which is just a lucky bonus for this case—they’re not always so glamorous). He peers around as he ambles toward the counter, taking stock of the few people littered around the room, drinking from mismatched coffee mugs and idly picking at muffins and scones. Stiles spots a particularly delicious looking blueberry muffin that he’s excited to try.

“Welcome to _Strange Moon_ ,” the girl at the counter says. She looks tired—sounds it too—but she still manages to come across as friendly enough, with a small grin and relaxed posture. “What can I get for ya?”

“Yeah, can I get a hazelnut latte and one of those blueberry muffins?” he says, reaching for his wallet. He might as well at least get something out of this. It’s not like he _wanted_ to get up at 7 a.m. this morning.

Their fingers brush as he hands her a ten, a spark of friction flashing between them enough to shock them both. She gasps quietly, dropping the bill where it flutters to the counter and staring at him with wide eyes. He clears his throat awkwardly.

“Man, I hate the cold,” he says with a chuckle.

She narrows her gaze then, slowly reaching for the bill. Depositing it quickly and dropping the change into his waiting palm (this time with no shocks), she hurries away to the door leading into what can only be the kitchen. Stiles is waiting by the pick-up counter when she comes back with a man—a very intimidating, somewhat burly (incredibly handsome) man. Well that didn’t take long.

“What do you want?” the man asks without any preamble.

“I just ordered a coffee,” Stiles says placatingly, hands up in surrender. “I’m with the F.D.S.I.”

The man, who can only be Derek Hale if Stiles’ information (and memory) are correct, watches him steadily, thick brows pulled low over his eyes in some form of a grumpy glare that Stiles has never actually thought possible. Despite Stiles’ rather strong resolve, it is very effective.

“I’m not here to start anything.”

“Then _why are you here_?” Derek growls.

“Can we do this in private please?” Stiles hisses, glancing around nervously at the other patrons in the shop. Nobody seems to have noticed the showdown happening just a few feet away from them.

“We can do this right here.”

“Derek, please hurry this up. I’m trying to read.”

Stiles whips around to look at what he thought was just an innocent bystander (apparently not the case) sitting in a window seat, now staring up at them with a bored expression over the pages of his book. He immediately hates the guy’s perfect curls and naturally flushed cheeks. (And the cheekbones? What is it with the supernatural?)

Derek rolls his eyes and lifts the section of counter in front of him, scowling at Stiles until he steps through.

“Come with me,” he commands, walking back into the kitchen.

It isn’t far to the small office near the back of the building where Derek opens the door and gestures for Stiles to walk through. He mutters something under his breath, (something that sounds suspiciously like “It’s fine, Erica.”) glancing toward the front of the shop before he closes the door behind him. Suddenly the room is thrust into absolute silence.

Stiles gulps. It’s a little unnerving that no one will hear his screams if this goes wrong—not like anyone in the shop seemed particularly inclined to help him.

“I’m registered,” Derek grunts as he sits behind his desk.

Stiles remains standing—it’s the only way to assert any sort of dominance for this conversation. Why did they send him again?

“But your pack isn’t,” he says smoothly.

Derek inhales deeply.

“My pack is part of the Hale pack which has been around for centuries,” he says. “And we’ve been registered since before I was born.”

“Yes but you have to register each individual member.”

“Since when?”

“It’s a recent addition.”

“And no one chose to inform me of this?”

“We tried.”

Stiles looks pointedly at the tall stack of mail at the end of Derek’s desk. That seems to put the alpha in his place just a bit and Stiles feels irrationally smug about it.

“And how do I go about doing that?”

“Well first you have to fill out the forms for all your new members, then we’ll conduct interviews—”

“Interviews?” Derek interrupts.

“ _Yes_. It’s a new policy,” Stiles says impatiently. “When those have been evaluated we will go through and accept their forms based on _how_ they were evaluated.”

“Just how many _new policies_ have you added?” Derek asks, frustration creeping into his voice. “And why does this sound more like a witch hunt than a registration?”

Stiles sighs, pursing his lips a moment. “Look, things have changed over the past couple years. We aren’t _looking_ to exclude anyone or take them away from their homes. But there are certain circumstances that have come to light recently that needed to be addressed. If you have read your mail then—”

Derek growls under his breath and Stiles cuts off. This time he doesn’t feel too intimidated though. Now he’s just annoyed. Before he has the chance to act on those feelings though, Derek is standing and striding to the door, whipping it open and staring pointedly at Stiles until he finally steps away from the wall he’d been leaning against.

“I’ll make sure to fill out those forms for you,” he says sarcastically.

Stiles drops a packet of papers onto the desk with a _smack_.

When he makes it back out into the front, outside the counter, the barista—Stiles can only assume she’s ‘Erica’—is waiting with his coffee in a to-go cup and a small brown bag holding his muffin. He takes them from her carefully. He doesn’t miss the way her eyes narrow at him but ignores it anyways.

This is not going to be an easy pack to work with.

******

“I don’t think I can work with them.”

Scott looks up from his computer, surprised at Stiles outburst. The soundproofing of offices makes it difficult to prepare for anyone coming in and Stiles is prone to rushing into his office and going on a rant without any warning.

“Okay, first of all dude, stop doing that,” Scott says, sighing through his nose. “Second, who are you talking about?”

“Derek Hale!” Stiles throws his arms up into the air for extra emphasis but from the looks of Scott’s unimpressed expression, he doesn’t think the message has quite gotten across how he wanted it to. “He’s the worst, Scott!”

“What’s the problem?” Scott asks, leaning back in his chair in a way that shows he’s prepared for a long tirade.

“Well, to start off he has murder brows!”

“Murder brows?”

“Yes! Big thick furry caterpillars that say ‘I’m going to kill you’,” Stiles says while gesturing wildly toward his own eyebrows.

“Okay…”

“He was very uncooperative. And he tried to make it seem like it was my fault he didn’t know the new policies when _he’s_ the one who apparently hasn’t checked his mail in like a year!”

“Really? That’s a long time.”

“And—AND his _pack_ —”

“Why are you using air quotes?”

“—is not very friendly either. He didn’t even properly introduce me—”

“Are they not really his pack?”

“—I mean does this guy know who I am? I could get his little coffee shop shutdown in two seconds if I wanted to—”

“But you bought some of their coffee…”

“—and sure their coffee is great but could they not at least learn some manners? It’s called ‘basic customer service’!”

There’s a ringing silence in the room once Stiles finishes. Scott’s staring at him with raised brows and concerned eyes but Stiles ignores that in favor of falling into one of the comfy chairs positioned in front of Scott’s desk with a dramatic sigh.

“So…are they going to fill out the forms?” Scott asks tentatively.

“I don’t know. Probably,” Stiles said with a dismissive hand gesture.

“What do you mean probably?”

“He said he would but who knows with this guy.”

“Stiles. Maybe you should be a little easier on him. You know what happened to his—”

“Yeah, I remember,” Stiles sighs. “I’m the one who told you.”

“Well, I mean that’s bound to make him kind of grumpy right?”

“Pfft. ‘Kind of’,” Stiles scoffs.

Scott refrains from rolling his eyes, but just barely.

“I could send someone else but you know why I sent you,” he says giving Stiles one of his ‘I won’t _make_ you do what I want but I _will_ make you feel bad until you do it anyways’ looks.

“Ugh! Yes, I know! Stop with the puppy eyes already,” Stiles grumbles, throwing his hands in the air.

“As far as we know, Derek doesn’t have an emissary,” Scott continues, despite having told this to Stiles at least five times before. “It’s best to have one talk to him about his pack. And since we don’t have one on hand right now, a spark is the next best choice.”

“Thanks for reminding me that I’m disposable.”

Scott does roll his eyes this time.

“Shut up. You know you’re not.”

Stiles grins. “Yeah, I’m really not.”

******

It’s been three weeks and yet nothing has been sent in. No papers. No requests for a meeting. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

And so now, here Stiles is once again walking into _Strange Moon Coffee Bar_ at around 8 a.m., same as last time, to be met with the same girl (Erica?) as last time, and a hard stare that he definitely had not been greeted with last time.

“Hey there!” he says cheerily, despite the tension in the room.

“Why are you here?” Erica says, eyes narrowing just the slightest bit more.

“That would be best taken up with your alpha,” Stiles says quietly, glancing around the room. “So if you could go and get him for me that would be great.”

The growl he gets in response is a bit unexpected but not as threatening as she was probably hoping it would be. Stiles raises a brow. Erica looks ready to lunge over the counter at him until a hand stops her at the shoulder.

“Erica. Take a break. Isaac will take over for you.”

There’s a put-upon whine from the same window seat as last time (do these people ever leave?) before the curly-haired, lanky werewolf (probably) is slouching around the counter to glare at Stiles as if it’s _his_ fault he has to work now. Stiles ignores him in favor of glancing over Derek Hale’s bare arms, view made possible by the most incredibly tight tank top Stiles has ever seen. _Those_ were _definitely_ not there last time.

“What do you want?” Derek asks as they’re walking back to the office. “I filled out the papers.”

“Not as far as we’ve gotten,” Stiles snipes back.

Derek huffs, crossing his arms to lean back against his desk and stare intimidatingly at Stiles which would have worked beautifully if Stiles could wrangle his gaze from the taught muscles of Derek’s forearms. And is that flour on his cheek?

“Were you baking?” Stiles blurts.

And there go the murder brows.

“ _I filled out the papers_ ,” Derek repeats. It almost looks like his eye might be twitching with the effort of not yelling. And now Stiles is a little intimidated.

“And like I said, we didn’t get them.”                                                                                                                                     

“That isn’t my fault,” Derek says.

“You sure about that? I mean we all know you’re not exactly good with the whole mail thi—”

“I know how to send mail,” Derek interrupts, voice low and with a hard edge that sends inappropriate shivers through Stiles’ body.

Okay this is getting ridiculous. Maybe it’s been awhile since he’s gotten laid and yes, Derek Hale is very very _very_ attractive but Stiles needs to get ahold of himself before he really is mauled.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in the same way his dad used to do when he’d been staring at the same case file for hours on end. “Okay. You filled out the forms. But we didn’t get them. And we _need_ them in order to stop the _big guys_ from taking _you guys_ in. So, I have a solution.”

There’s a crash from out front before Stiles can say another word (it’s only then that Stiles realizes the office door is still open behind him). Derek is rushing out of the room before he can blink. When he catches up to the scene he has to take a deep breath to stop himself from exploding over the ridiculousness in front of him.

“Can you please let my partner go?” he asks through gritted teeth and the three werewolves in front of him turn to stare. “She’s harmless really.”

Kira pouts at that, despite the fact that Isaac has her gripped at the throat against one of the tables and she has her katana out and pressed just barely into his stomach.

“Let her go, Isaac,” Derek sighs.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car?” Stiles says when he steps forward to give her a hand.

“Scott called. Said he needed us to come in,” she shrugs. With a small surge of electricity from the palm of her hand, the katana falls into a limp metal belt that she clicks into place around her waist. “It sounded pretty urgent.”

“How the hell did you do that?” Erica asks, staring at the belt.

Kira grins. “Lots of practice!”

“I guess we better get back to the office,” Stiles frowns. “Scott’s never urgent unless it’s important.”

“What about my registrations?” Derek asks as Stiles and Kira make to leave the coffee shop.

“Come into the office at noon tomorrow. And be on time. I’m giving up my lunch hour for this,” Stiles says, setting a business card down on the table next to him.

He barely sees the sneer Derek sends him before he’s out the door, Kira right on his heels.

******

Stiles is hurriedly stuffing his face with leftover Chinese food when he’s called down to the lobby for a ‘Derek Hale’. He groans around his mouthful. He’d been hoping Derek would come late just to spite him so he’d have some time to eat lunch. Popping another eggroll into his mouth, he brushes his hands off on his dress pants (something Lydia would probably kill him for) and hurries out of his office.

The ride down in the elevator is spent trying to chew his food, despite his puffed out cheeks, and he’s almost managed it when the doors open and he catches Derek’s eye a few yards away. Swallowing proves even more difficult as he almost chokes himself in the process. Derek simply raises a brow at him.

“What do you need me to do?” he asks, getting straight to the point and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Just come up to my office with me.”

The ride back up is silent, tense, and thoroughly awkward. It doesn’t help that Stiles can’t stop trying to peek a look at the way Derek’s jeans hug his ass in just the right—

“Will you stop?” Derek grunts, shifting his stance so he’s leaning back against the elevator wall.

Stiles refuses to acknowledge the blush that overtakes his entire face. Not that he needs to when Lydia sees him just as they reach his floor. She raises a brow at the state of his appearance giving Derek a once over with narrowed eyes, then sends him a slightly approving nod. It makes him a feel a little better.

“Stiles,” she says.

“Lydia.”

“Come to my office when you’re done here,” she says slowly, glancing Derek’s way again. Her wink and smirk as she turns to talk away only serve to make his face redder.

“She didn’t mean that,” he says to Derek.

Derek just stares at him in response, seemingly very over their entire interaction already.

“Um, my office is this way,” Stiles mumbles, turning abruptly in the direction he pointed. People were never going to take him seriously like this.

Stiles scrambles to clean up his lunch when they step into the office, scooping bits of rice on his desk into the trash and closing containers before throwing them in his mini fridge. He mutters under his breath as he goes, obviously frazzled, and scowls up at Derek when the man snorts in amusement.

“Okay, okay. So we’re just going to fill these out here,” Stiles says as he pulls the necessary forms from a file bin in the drawer of his desk. “And this way if you have questions, I’ll be right here to help you.”

“Well, I’ve already filled them out once so I think I can handle it,” Derek drawls.

He sets up in the chair opposite Stiles’ desk, taking the pen offered to him before he starts flipping through the paperwork. Stiles is surprised to notice him fill out personal details for each of his pack members without a reference in sight.

“So are you a baker then?”

Derek pauses, glances up with a blank expression, and then resumes his work.

“I mean you had flour all over you yesterday,” Stiles rambles, “so I assumed that’s what you were doing. I thought you were just the owner, though. When did you start baking?”

Derek sighs but doesn’t answer.

“I’ve never been good at baking. I can cook like nobody’s business but I can’t bake for shit,” he forges on. “Lydia makes fun of me a lot. But she has an unfair advantage. She’s good at literally everything.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth quirks and Stiles fights off a smile.

“Are you the only one that bakes at the shop then? You strike me as the type of guy that doesn’t like people encroaching on his space.”

“What gave you that idea?” Derek speaks up then, tone and expression thoroughly sarcastic.

“Just a hunch,” Stiles grins.

Derek grits his teeth but Stiles doesn’t miss the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

After a long time of silence, only filled with the sound of pen swiping across paper, Stiles gives in and grabs his Chinese, taking care to eat smaller bites this time like a more civilized human being. Derek doesn’t seem to care, even when Stiles begins talking again, about anything and everything, around his mouthfuls of rice. Or maybe he’s just not paying attention…he’s probably just not paying attention.

Except Stiles sees the minute reactions, a small huff of laughter at one his jokes, squinted eyes and twitching lips when Stiles bemoans his job. It feels…better than Stiles would have thought.

It takes almost forty five minutes for Derek to complete the forms and by then Stiles has thrown his empty food carton in the trash and kicked his feet up on the corner of his desk. He’s only gotten a few responses from Derek but somehow it feels like progress.

“Finished,” Derek says in the middle of Stiles’ story about getting caught naked with Scott after someone stole their clothes while they were skinny dipping. His ears are tinged pink and Stiles can’t tell if it’s because he’s embarrassed at the imagery or trying to hold in laughter. Either way, it’s a win.

“Thanks, man!” Stiles answers easily.

He gathers all the papers, flipping through to make sure they’re in some sort of organized order while Derek stands and puts his leather jacket back on (he’d taken it off somewhere around the eleven minute mark and Stiles had had to take a moment just to breathe  at the sight of the unbuttoned green Henley underneath). Standing to walk him out, Stiles tries not to be sad that their time is over. He’d actually quite enjoyed babbling away at Derek.

“We’ll set up the interviews once the paperwork’s been processed—probably in a couple weeks,” he informs Derek as they walk back to the elevators.

Derek nods, giving him a long look before he steps onto the elevator and the doors close behind him. Stiles’ shoulders slump in defeat.

“So how was he?” Lydia asks.

“Shut up,” Stiles pouts.

She laughs at him, flipping her long hair over her shoulder as she passes him by.

******

Stiles doesn’t quite know why he’s here. He could use the excuse of great coffee (which granted is a very valid excuse) but he knows it’s not the truth. There isn’t even a guarantee of seeing Derek since he always seems to be in the back ( _baking_ —oh god, what Stiles would give to see that) and yet he still feels pulled to the shop to buy coffee way more expensive than his usual morning dose (the free pot he makes at home). This time, Isaac is manning the register, sitting on a stool and bent over a book he has on the counter in front of him. He looks up at the sound of the bell, then scoffs and goes back to his book.

“Heya, Isaac,” Stiles greets anyway.

Isaac hums noncommittally.

“Could I get a coffee?”

“Is that all you’re here for?”

“Yep. Promise.”

Stiles really hopes his heart doesn’t—

Isaac looks up with a skeptical expression, eyes zeroing in on Stiles’ chest.

Dammit.

“What do you need this time?” he asks, flipping his book closed.

“Nothing.” At least that’s the truth. “I would love a hazelnut latte though!”

Isaac sighs and stands to make the coffee. Stiles jumps at the loud yelp that comes from the kitchen a moment later but Isaac doesn’t show any signs of having heard it. The door opens, Erica tumbling out with Derek right behind her, murder brows already in place.

“I told you to set a timer,” he growls, waving away the smoke around his face.

“I did!” Erica protests. Derek stares at her long enough to have her backing down, heading toward the bathrooms and grumbling under her breath.

“Baking lessons?” Stiles says and Derek turns to him.

“What are you doing here Stiles?” he sighs. “You said it would be a few weeks.”

“Oh, yeah. I just came for coffee this time.”

Derek glances toward his heart and Stiles silently curses his traitorous biology.

“You can get coffee anywhere else,” Derek says.

“Are you trying to kick me out?” Stiles asks with an overstated gasp.

“Yes.”

Derek’s lips twitch despite his answer.

“Well I already paid—”

“No you haven’t,” Isaac contributes unhelpfully.

“—so you’re stuck with me.”

Derek is actively fighting back a smile now, ducking his head in the most adorable display of embarrassment that Stiles has ever seen. He takes the coffee from Isaac when he’s finished making it, grabbing a sharpie from behind the register with his other hand. As he scribbles on the outside of the cup, he glances up at Stiles with an amused snort.

“I’ll give this to you on the house if you get out of my shop,” he says lightly, holding the cup close to his chest once he’s done.

“Deal,” Stiles accepts with a grin.

Derek narrows his eyes but nods and passes the coffee over. They get caught up in staring at each other, long enough for Isaac to clear his throat and trade looks between Derek and the stool he’s currently blocking access to.

“You shouldn’t even be reading up here,” Derek says, but moves anyway.

Stiles takes the chance to escape, looking back just once more before he steps outside to see Derek watching him, expression unreadable. It’s not until he’s getting into his jeep that Stiles remembers his coffee and quickly turns the cup to find a drawing of a little muffin with lines protruding around it—rays of light as if it’s shining. He snorts at it, angling the cup a bit more to catch the ten digits written right there on the sleeve.

He doesn’t waste any time putting the number in his phone and sending out a text.

**Stiles [sent 9:47am]:  
          _What’s with the muffin?_**

**Grumpy Baker Wolf [received 9:48am]:  
           _It’s a suggestion._**

**Stiles [sent 9:48am]:  
          _For what?_**

He frowns when he doesn’t automatically get a reply back and starts the jeep to head to work. By the time he gets there, he’s almost forgotten the exchange (read: he’s trying desperately not to obsess over what Derek will reply with) and settles into his office, groaning at the pile of paperwork on his desk as he falls into his chair and takes another sip of coffee. Only then does he brave checking his phone again.

**Grumpy Baker Wolf [received 10:02am]:  
          _For our first date._**

Stiles doesn’t even bother to hide his flushed cheeks this time, proudly displaying his wide smile for everyone to see—even when Danny tells him he’s being creepy while he drops off even more paperwork. Nothing could bring him down because…

Well, he’s got a date.


End file.
